


there's love in our bodies

by winterkill



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Enjoy Irene struggling with FEELINGS, Eugenides and his PTSD, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Marriage, No one has time for Relius's concerns, Phresine is the best and knows all, The brattiest king, True love survives having your future husband's hand chopped off!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: “Worse than love, then,” Relius replies, “You trust him.”“I hear your disapproval.” The one thing Attolia must never give anyone--her utmost trust.Eugenides and Irene navigate the first weeks of their marriage.
Relationships: Attolia | Irene/Eugenides
Comments: 46
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kirazi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirazi/gifts).

> This is a gift for the wonderfully talented kirazi!
> 
> I adore Irene and Eugenides, so hopefully I did them _some_ justice. This is set after _The Queen of Attolia_ and in between and into the beginning of _The King of Attolia_. It's all before Costis punches Eugenides. I aimed to keep it as canon compliant as possible, but there's probably some nods.
> 
> This grew beyond the confines of a one shot, so it will be posted in three parts. It also taught me that my prose is no match for Megan Whalen Turner's.
> 
> Title comes from the Florence + the Machine song "Hardest of Hearts."

Eugenides never looks more like a boy-king than when he's sitting on the throne--the throne Attolia sat on herself just weeks ago. 

Irene looks at him from her new place at his side, the slightest dart of her eyes to the left, watches him shift in the admittedly uncomfortable chair. He closes his eyes, looks bored and irritated in turn. She can never be sure if Eugenides is even listening.

Sometimes, Irene feels like she was _ born _ in that seat, that there is nothing left of her from before she walled herself off and became Attolia. She finds discomfort in her station, too, but comfort and power are not bedfellows.

Power was better than being a pawn for men.

Comfort goes along with her atrophied heart, and Attolia doesn't think of those things. Irene does, in the dark of night as Eugenides wakes, screaming, from a nightmare down the hall. 

Irene feels like decades yet unlived are heaped on her shoulders. Perception aside, the boy on the throne next to her _ is _ a man, if only barely, whether by age or experience. She truncated his childhood when she cut off his hand. 

Every fiber of Eugenides's being is in revolt at being Attolis; Irene can see what she’s done to him by the way he avoids sitting on the throne beside her, how he makes himself look ineffectual, flippant, inattentive. Eugenides is accustomed to being alone; he seeks to retreat from the court and the attendants who crowd him, and looks dismayed when he can’t thwart the attention.

Relius cautions her curtail Eugenides's power; Irene refuses.

Irene wants to yell_ how many more things can I take from him? _ Eddis, his freedom, his right hand, his love for her that's now forever marred by her deeds. 

And for what? _ Love_, Eugenides would tell her if being with her meant being king, then he would bear it. It’s only been a week, but Irene wonders if he regrets it. And, if he doesn’t already, when he will come to do so. 

_ What have I given him? _

Surely, when Eugenides looks at her, he can't see the lonely girl he'd spied on all those years ago. He _ must _ see her giving the order to cut off his hand; he must recall the anguish, both then and after. Sobbing alone in that cell, praying. Eugenides loves her--he has no reason to lie after what she’s inflicted on him. She returns the feeling, for all the pain it causes her, wants to be close to him but has no right.

“I don’t find that a particularly fair trade,” her husband, her _ king_, tells the two bickering farmers before the dias the thrones sit on. Irene’s amazed to hear him speak. Horribly, and uncharacteristically, she’d let her mind wander; Eugenides, never one to miss details, noticed, and steps in. “The exchange of goods, whether livestock or sundry, should be equitable.”

They two farmers erupt in shouts, echoing in the throne room.

“Ah,” Eugenides says, much louder than he usually speaks, gestures with the hook at the end of his right arm, “If you can’t reconcile it, I’ll decide what an equitable division is, and _ both _ of you will be very unhappy.”

The two farmers look to her, Attolia, as everyone does, even when Eugenides is the one to speak. Her mask is flawless, though, honed like the finest blade, so she looks to Eugenides, nods, and then turns her gaze to her audience.

“It’s as the king says.”

Irene _ thinks _ she sees Eugenides give her the tiniest smirk.

* * *

They've been married for ten days, and Eugenides hasn't come to her bed since their wedding night. 

Irene doesn’t move out of the king’s chambers; Eugenides doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t explain. The queen’s chambers, slightly smaller but no less opulent and fortified, remain unoccupied. There, they could move freely between each other’s rooms. Eugenides remains down the hall--a physical manifestation of their continued emotional distance.

To be fair, Irene hasn't gone to him, either. She could--no guard is going to stop Attolia from going to her husband. Having to go through all the guards and attendants to get to Eugenides will add to the rumors circulating about their relationship; every set of eyes she passes in the hall--guards, attendants, will speculate.

Know what, though? That Attolia lays with her husband. It’s not even _ true_, but that was certainly the expectation the first time--she’d let that man rut above her _ once _ before she’d poisoned him. _ Never another_, she’d told herself. 

A vow that she’d broken.

Everyone thinks there’s no love between them, and any affection Irene feels for Eugenides is a performance, that behind closed doors there is nothing. It might be easier if that were true--there’s love, but it’s a fraught, complex love that Irene doesn’t know how to express.

A new rumor might be better; for the last week, all anyone talks about his how Attolia cried on her wedding night. Eugenides cried, too, but that part seems to have fallen between the cracks. 

They’d both been terrified. Eugenides kept his right arm tucked under the pillow behind her head, not moving even when the strain to hold himself aloft became apparent. _ He fears me_, _ even here_, she thought. Irene wanted to comfort him, but couldn’t find the words or the motions. 

_ What do I know of comfort, or comforting? _

She could remember the way Eugenides shivered when she’d touched his maimed wrist, wondered if he wanted that again, wondered if it would open a locked door and what would be outside it. He was gentle, if unpracticed, and while Irene wouldn’t say she felt passion, she felt like she _ could _feel it, that maybe it was part of what was beyond the door. 

“I love you,” he’d said to her after, arm finally giving out. He’d cried then, hot tears into her dark hair against the pillow. Irene followed him, great hiccuping sobs like when she was a girl. Had Eugenides seen her like that when he spied on her? Irene _ must _ have cried like this before, long, long ago.

And the tears are a burst damn; like being back in that boat in the darkness--only she was alone with no paddle. Irene’s only option was to jump into the black depths, only she never learned to swim.

* * *

Irene decides, on the twelfth day, to figure out how to _ show _ Eugenides she loves him. She’d spoken the words, twice, but both of them know that words don’t always speak the loudest truth.

Eugenides lies like he breathes, obfuscates and dodges and hides. Eddis told her he lies to himself, and Irene can see the proof of it in the way he tells himself that he’s fine. She believes the truth in his choice to remain here with him, and lets that act as her waypoint. 

She longs be Irene once more, not Attolia. To have a space where that’s even possible. To nurture the seed of kindness, gentleness, that she _ knows _is buried within the tight-packed earth of her heart.

“Eugenides.”

She goes to his chambers; he’s alone sitting at the small table by the window, writing with his left hand. _ A letter to Eddis, perhaps? _A wary baron or advisor might see that as treasonous, but all it tells Irene is that Eugenides has a life, and people, that he misses.

“Irene.”

Her name, intimate just by the virtue of being spoken--not Attolia, or your majesty, or my queen. _ Irene. _

“I need to speak to you.”

She sounds like she's ordering him. _ Do I know no other way to communicate? _A foolish query when she knows the answer.

He looks up from the parchment, meets her gaze with his own that always seems to be looking _ through _her. "Have I given you reason to think that you can't?"

"We're never together," Irene replies.

Eugenides places his quill back in the stand, "That's not _ technically _ accurate. We're together at court, and during meetings and meals and dancing. And, sometimes I'm with you when you don't even realize."

"_Thief_," she says, low and irritated--a voice she'd never let anyone else hear. "I don't mean your spying or at court."

A smirk. "You mean as we are now."

"Obviously."

Now, a real smile, one that makes her heart clinch. "_ Irene. _"

Irene lets her eyes fall closed at her name on his lips. That's Eugenides's power, more than skill with a blade, or subterfuge, or deftness--the power to unmake her, to render her defenses useless. His pain did it first, but Irene knows, now, that his kindness can, too.

"Is that me?"

"It can be," he answers, "you're my queen; it can be anything you desire it to be."

"May I," she starts, her lips don't know how to form requests, "May I spend time with you? 

_ Move next door so there’s no pretense_, she wants to say, but can’t bring herself, whether from pride or guilt, to ask.

"You don't have to ask; all your advisors would love if you kept me on a chain."

"I _ am _ asking though," she doesn't want to take from him any longer. "You've watched me since I was a girl, since before I was Attolia, but I don't know you."

"Do you feel wed to a stranger?"

"I wed a man I wronged, who I took much from, and who loves me despite it." Irene has never been craven, not until Eugenides. "You've unmasked me; I'd like to understand it."

_ And for you not to fear me_, Irene can't make herself say. _ If you're going to keep him, you have to believe him. _ Eddis told her as much before she returned home.

To Irene's surprise, Eugenides moves to the edge of his chair, making space for her. "I'm writing to Eddis, if you'd like to help, or observe."

She raises her eyebrows, "I've seen your left-handed penmanship, you don't need my assistance."

Eugenides gives her a _ look_.

_ Oh, he's trying to-- _

"You should probably make sure your goat-footed, boy-king king isn't divulging secrets to the enemy."

Irene sits next to him, their thighs pressed close together. "I don't fear that."

"Your barons certainly do."

_ I could execute them all_. Irene doesn't think that will placate Eugenides. 

When she doesn't respond, he continues, "You could write to her, too. She's fond of you, and she doesn't believe me when I tell her I'm fine."

_ Fine_. Fine isn't happy, not that Irene knows what that feels like, either. 

"Another lie. Eddis certainly doesn't like me."

Eugenides laughs, "A truth, I swear."

Irene feels a tightness in her chest release, like something is germinating within her. 

"I'll add something," she reaches across the desk and takes the quill and inkpot It’s the same as the one she threw at his head when he suggested halving the guard. "And we'll see what she replies."

* * *

Irene has never struggled with decisions, but a challenge presents itself when tenderness, or care, are her goal. She is not a soft woman, and ruthlessness comes much easier.

Eugenides lets her into his space. Before, Irene retreated to solitude, spare minutes alone in between her myriad and endless responsibilities. She craves moments that are hers alone.

Now, though, she's trying to share them with another.

So, they spend afternoons together, between Eugenides’s lessons and other duties. Irene learns what Eugenides does in his free time, and he learns what she does with hers. He reads, voraciously, spanning genre and language. Although, she observes that he seems to prefer mythology and history. Irene never seems to stop working, so she answers correspondence and missives.

"This looks dull," he tells her on the second evening, peering over her shoulder, “would you like my input?”

"You didn't want this," she answers. Only in complete privacy does Eugenides offer suggestions to her.

"Do you think me a boy, only fit for mocking your courtiers and knowing more about your palace than you do?"

_ We'll have to talk about that, at some point. _

"You're not a boy," she replies. Eugenides has grown, not as tall as she is, but _ taller_, and he's lost some of the boyishness from when they first met. There's a sharpness to his features now, and Irene wonders how much of it she put there. 

He holds up his right arm, surveys the hook with a dispassionate expression, "I'm Attolis now; you changed me, and I must adapt."

Irene wants to touch him, to take the cuff off his right arm and soothe what she'd done to him, to press her fingers or her lips against the scars.

Nothing, _ none _ of that can regrow a lost hand.

In her nightmares, Irene holds the blade herself. Does Eugenides dream of that way, too?

"Please," she answers, another word foreign on her lips, "I'd... appreciate help. I won't cede to you, but perhaps we can work together."

Eugenides gives her another smile, and Irene tucks it away, where it might bloom within her. 

"Of course, my queen," he shakes his head, "I mean, Irene."

* * *

"Good day, Relius," Eugenides says.

"Good day, your majesty," Relius replies. 

Irene has watched this exchange many times in the last three weeks. Eugenides crosses his arms and, impressively, _ never _ jabs himself with the hook. He shifts in his chair, like a boy who’s been forced to sit for lessons when he’d rather be outside with a sword. He fiddles with things--coins, a random knife he produces from _ somewhere_. Relius talks to her, _ at _ her, and Irene watches her advisor dance around trying to tell her things without Eugenides knowing. 

If she was apt to laugh, it _ might _ be amusing--Relius, for all his wisdom, is _ woefully _underestimating Eugenides. To him, it must look like the king isn’t listening, bored and unwilling to exercise his power, content to let others vie for it and speak for him, seeking to undermine Attolia all the while.

Relius is the closest thing Irene has to a friend. They're _ not _ friends because Relius tells her, over and over again for years, not to trust him. 

_ Trust only yourself_.

It's advice for Attolia--hard advice that has proven right more than once. So, she trusts no one, but Relius is the closest. His guidance is invaluable to her, so Irene doesn't like the look Relius gives her when Eugenides attends meetings that previously were limited to the two of them.

Irene has chosen to trust Eugenides, and she tells Relius as much.

"If you shouldn't trust me, you certainly shouldn't trust him," Relius had told her in hushed tones after the first meeting Eugenides attended.

"He is my king, Relius," Irene replies, "The king I chose, and should be privy to what I am privy to."

Relius gives her a pointed, skeptical look to show his disagreement, “Then your king must step up and speak as one, or others will do it for him.” 

_ Or, you could find a way to shackle him further _ is what Relius is really saying. 

Irene’s aware, of course, of everyone trying to gain the favor of her new, foreign king. Or, they’re trying to assassinate him. Certainly there’s several plots of that ilk as well. Eugenides doesn’t make it easier--he abstains from making decisions, voices his opinions randomly and inconsistently, and has yet to punish any of the people who _ surely _ must be slighting him.

No, he obfuscates his difficulties from Irene, too.

Eugenides is _ unfailingly _ polite to Relius; he thanks him for his dedicated service after every meeting. Relius remembers his courtesies, however insincere, and replies to the same.

With Relius dismissed, Irene turns to Eugenides, “You thank him but look utterly bored while Relous is speaking.”

Her husband shrugs, “His information is fine, but he rarely tells me things I don’t already know.”

* * *

It’s all Irene can do to avoid shrieking the first time Eugenides emerges from a secret passage inside her chambers that she wasn’t aware of. They’re on day twenty-two, late enough in the night that the tapers lighting Irene’s chamber burn low.

Shrieking would be bad, though--it would alert the guards, and attendants, and that would ruin her scrap of quiet time.

“I was deliberately noisy, too,” he says to her, smirking in the candlelight.

“Not loud enough, apparently,” Irene retorts. She’s shaken, but a little thrill courses through her at the fact that Eugenides sought her out.

“Well, I don’t want to alert the guard; that would defeat the purpose.”

“Of course,” Irene replies dryly, “Is the passage why you chose to keep your old chambers?”

Another smirk--another moment where Irene feels like she’s freefalling.

“It was probably used to steal in a mistress.”

A non-answer; a dodge.

“You’re king,” she replies, “Kings don’t need to sneak in to their queen’s rooms.”

Eugenides doesn’t respond, but he comes and sits next to her.

* * *

“Teach me about my palace.”

She should sleep, but Eugenides is sitting beside her on her bed, and they’re _ alone_, and a moment like this is worth being tired in the morning. He doesn't come through the passage each night, but does so with enough frequency that Irene has to bury the disappointment on skipped nights.

Eugenides looks up from his book, smirks at her, “I was wondering if you’d inquire about that.”

“It’s clearly a _ glaring _ security flaw,” Irene replies, sitting down the letter she’d been reading, “So, I think it would behoove me to know how you snuck into my palace for _ years _ without my, or anyone else’s, knowledge”

“I wouldn’t concern yourself,” he replies, “Only the Thief knew the passages, and I’ve heard Eddis is short a thief these days.”

It’s a joke, but it jabs at some soft place Eugenides has created in her--a crack, perhaps, letting in light, and air, but also pain.

“I’ve heard the Thief of Eddis in my prisoner,” she replies, deflecting, “I wonder if he’d be willing to show me more of these passages.”

To her surprise, Eugenides rises from her bed and holds out his left hand, “There’s one, I suppose, that leads to a view.”

“A view to spy on me,” Irene asks, “or a real view?”

“A real view.”

She takes his hand, the one he has left, the one she’ll protect. Eugenides flinches, the smallest reaction he can’t control, but curls his fingers tighter around Irene’s when she pulls back. 

_ He _ wants _ to want to touch me? _ Irene doesn’t understand, still, how Eugenides sits next to her, close enough that their legs brush together, and she can feel the heat of him. He’s still clasping her hand, like he’s forcing himself to reach into a _ before _ where he longed for her.

Horrifyingly, the entrance to the passage he’s decided to show her leads from another corner of her own apartments--the brushing aside of a tapestry near the entrance to her dressing room. Eugenides moves it with the stump of his right wrist and a press against a specific stone.

“Why are there so many in my apartments_?” _Irene tries not to present as disconcerted as she feels. At least the first passage has only one exit. “Someone could come in and--”

“--Watch you sleep?” Eugenides replies with a smirk; his dark eyes revealing _ nothing_, “Leave you gifts, perhaps?”

“...Maybe I _ should _have had you hanged.”

"You had your chance," Eugenides laughs. “Take that taper off the wall and come.”

Irene listens, holding the candle aloft and letting him lead her through the darkened passage. It winds upward, and soon enough they’re through a trapdoor on the roof of the megaron.

“You could have deigned to show me a useful one.” The wind gutters the taper and plunges them into darkness, lit only by the waxing moon above, “And now we’ll trip and break our necks on the climb down.”

“I won’t,” Eugenides replies, “I could scale down the side of the palace blindfolded _ and _one-handed--”

A turn of phrase, maybe a slip of the tongue, maybe intentional--she can never tell. Irene’s blood turns to ice in her veins. Eugenides is still clasping her right hand in his left; she would have to shake to free herself from his grasp.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, the build up of the feelings over the last few weeks makes the words spill out, “I’d give anything to take it back.”

Eugenides looks at her, expression indiscernible in the moonlight, "I know you would."

"How can you love me?"

An echo, an iteration of an earlier question.

"You're my queen," he replies, still unreadable. 

Irene wants a _ better _ answer, one that doesn't sound like duty. One that doesn't sound like he gave up everything he wanted for his kingdom, for _ her_. One that confirms his choice, and _ why _ he made it.

"That's not enough," she replies, "I need a better answer, one I can understand."

Eugenides drops her hand, moves to the edge of the roof, and sits looking out at the sea. He's utterly calm, despite the height, legs dangling over. Irene moves to sit beside him, but further back. Eugenides's god will protect him, but Irene doesn't feel so certain.

_ He could push me_, she realizes, _ I know he'd never, but wouldn't it be justice? _

"Everytime I came to watch you," he starts, looking away from her, outward to the sea. "I thought your world shrank. You became lonelier, behind another locked door, further and further away."

"I had to survive," Irene replies.

"You became harder to reach," Eugenides looks at her, "And it was a challenge. Could I steal you? Could I _ free _ you?"

"No," Irene shakes her head, unbound hair catching in the breeze. "Nothing can do that. All I can do is trap you, too."

Eugenides doesn't deny it, a fact Irene is grateful for. It would be too much, to hear him utter the lie that she hasn’t fettered him.

"What would you ask of me? Anything that's within my power, I will do."

Irene is used to having everything she needs and nothing she desires. A bird in a lofty, gilded cage. _ What do I want that Eugenides can grant me? _ There's nothing to steal from her--he has her heart, for the little it's worth.

"I want," she closes her eyes, "I don't want you to flinch when I reach for you."

Irene has _ certainly _ asked the one thing he can't grant. She _ wants _ Eugenides, even if that makes her a terrible, cruel person, to desire someone she hurt. To ask for his intimacy, his trust--

"I don't want to react the way I do," Eugenides sounds petulant that his mind and body won't be under his command. “I’m punishing you, each time, aren’t I?”

“Is that not what I deserve?”

“What good is my adding to your pain?”

_ Revenge. _

“No, not revenge,” he replies, and Irene realizes she spoke her thought. "Is that what you'd want in my place?"

"Yes," she answers honestly, "I want vengeance for the deed now, against myself."

Eugenides sighs, and Irene can feels waves of frustration coming off of him, "You'd kill everyone who hurts me, even yourself," 

The wind picks up, ruffles her hair. Irene shivers and moves closer to the ledge, closer to Eugenides. He reaches across his body with his left hand to grasp her right. Irene wants to mirror the gesture, take his other hand. 

_ I ruined that. _

He’s not wearing the cuff or the hook, now; just his bare wrist tucked in his sleeve. Irene touches him, fingers circling his wrist. He intakes a breath, sharp and sudden, and she waits, feels the scarring, rough under her fingers.

They make eye contact long enough that Irene’s heart starts to pound. She can feel Eugenides's pulse in his wrist under her fingertips--it feels like it’s racing in time with hers, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“Irene.”

“Eugenides.”

Just names, whispered into the wind, heavy with meaning.

Irene leans forward, pressing her lips against his; she slams her eyes shut, expecting a recoil. He’s stolen kisses from her, but Irene has never initiated one herself, a river she could never ford. 

Eugenides smirks into the kiss; Irene feels the upward turn of his lips, knows what the smile looks like. Then, he kisses her back, tentatively, but with a hunger underneath. He clutches her hand in his, tilts his head and bumps his nose against hers affectionately. The innocence of the gesture makes her chest ache, makes her feel _ young_, younger than she’s ever felt since becoming Attolia.

She’s unsure how much time passes before Eugenides pulls away and drops his forehead to her shoulder.

“Do you have nightmares about it?” His tone is inquisitive, not accusatory.

“Yes,” she admits, forces herself to talk; it’s the only way forward. “In them, I’m always the one holding the blade.” 

She ordered it, so it might as well be the truth.

“In mine, too,” he admits.

“I hear you, some nights,” she runs her thumb over his wrist. Irene wakes up, gasping for air with wetness on her cheeks--Eugenides must do the same, alone down the hall. “Would you--do you prefer to be alone?”

He shakes his head, “No.”

Listening to him cry and plead with the gods from a distance, like the first few days after she’d cut off his hand. Sobbing alone in the hall outside his cell, unworthy of comforting him. Even now, Irene is still doing it.

“If I came to you, what would you do?” Irene hates how her voice shakes, unfamiliar she is at revealing her heart.

“People will talk, should they find out.”

_ Not if you moved to the adjoining chambers_.

“You’re my husband," she says instead, "Can’t I be with you as I please? And I can use the passage, as you do."

“Your barons don’t know what to do with us,” he sounds amused. “Do you mean to poison my wine cup? Do we hate one another?”

“Eddis warned me you would throw my court into chaos,” Irene keeps her hand on his wrist but wraps her other arm around Eugenides's back; he settles against her, even closer. 

“If you come to me, everyone will know you care,” he teases.

“I do care.”

“I’d like it if you were there.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you for the comments and kudos and bookmarks. Here's part two of three.
> 
> Also, just a reminder that this fic _is_ rated M, meaning there's sexual content. More so next chapter, but a bit here.

“You love the Thief,” Relius tells her three mornings later. They’re not meeting, not _ formally _; this might be the closest thing Irene has to a social visit. Relius is more like a father during these conversations--a father she’s not to trust, and that she could have thrown in the dungeons.

“And you speak boldly for an advisor, even a trusted one,” Irene replies, “You disapprove?”

“Does your love allow him to manipulate you?”

A fair question; one that compels Irene to silence. “I don’t fear that from Attolis.” She uses Eugenides’s title--the one that gives him the same power she has over Relius.

“So _ you _can manipulate him?”

“No manipulating,” Irene snaps. Eugenides inspires such reactions, makes her talk to Relius like she’s a girl again, undermining all of his lessons on how to read and use men to her advantage. “He’s the first person I don’t want to use your lessons on.”

“Worse than love, then,” Relius replies, “You trust him.”

“I hear your disapproval.” The one thing Attolia must _ never _ give anyone--her utmost trust. Relius created a powerful Atollia, a shrewd and skeptical queen. Irene is immeasurably grateful, and immeasurably lonely. “You’re correct, though, Relius; I trust Eugenides.”

“To be a queen is to be alone,” Relius answers, “A king like Eugenides disrupts your authority. If you’re going to trust him, you _ must _get him to act as king.”

“I’m--we’re trying,” Irene looks at her advisor, nonplussed by the urgency in his tone, “It’s no easy feat. He’s quite headstrong, and I hurt him.”

She’s used to having bury her emotions, but _ that _ might be the most significant understatement of her life.

“What was done was justice,” Relius replies, “but Attolis cannot be a petulant, moody boy; you must tame him.”

Irene wants to tell Relius_ go try that yourself, and let me know how you fare. _

* * *

It’s the night of the new moon, less than a week since their rooftop interlude, when Eugenides's screams pull Irene from sleep, as swiftly as her own nightmares would. She remembers her promise to him, rises from the bed and pulls on her robe, more for propriety than warmth. The room is pitch dark, candles guttered out, but Irene knows the steps to her door. She considers the passage, first, but she’s never been through it alone, and the route is long and winding.

It will be faster to walk down the hall; she is Attolia, and no one will bar her passage.

The hall is lined with tapers. Chloe is dozing on a cot in an alcove, and the guard at her door bows in deference to her. Eugenides cries out again, and only an ingrained sense of keeping her responses measured stops Irene from darting the rest of the way. 

The guard at Eugenides’s door makes way for her--Irene would have him hanged for even the slightest _ look_. She’d dismiss Eugenides's ineffectual and bumbling attendants, too, if the king would allow it, if it wouldn’t make him appear weak.

Another battle for another day.

Irene bars the door behind her. Their combined attendants, awoken by the noise, will gather in the hall. Irene doubts the outcome of their conversations will be some conclusion of genuine affection between the king and queen.

Eugenides is thrashing when Irene approaches his bedside; the linens are kicked to the side, and the dark hair that curls around his face is damp with sweat and stuck to his skin. Irene’s unaccustomed to the nervousness, but pushes past it, placing the candle on the bedside table and sitting next to Eugenides. 

Irene touches his shoulder, shaking him gently; Eugenides _ certainly _ has a knife hidden somewhere, and she isn’t fond of the promise of ending up gutted in her husband’s bed, should he be startled upon waking.

“Eugenides,” she whispers, her hand now in the damp strands of his hair, “you’re safe in your bed; no one will harm you here.”

He wakes, disorientated and terrified--Irene sees in his eyes, in that moment, his greatest fear is _ her_, that the act she committed in the nightmare, in the past, would bleed into the waking world. 

_ How do I provide comfort when I caused the pain? _

“A lie,” he gasps, shutting his eyes, “There’s much here that would seek to harm me.” He hides his Eddisian accent during the day, but it’s pronounced now that his guard is lowered. Selfishly, Irene would welcome the intimacy of hearing it more often.

“What can I do?”

"_Water, _" Eugenides croaks, "and move the candle closer."

Irene obeys, leaves the candle at the bedside and returns with a mug of water. She isn't sure if he'll want her touch as he sits, so she hovers at the periphery of the bed holding out the mug. Eugenides braces himself on his right elbow and takes the proffered cup in his left hand, drinking it dry at once.

"Are you...well?"

_ What a moronic question. _Anyone with eyes could see the king isn't well--he's shaking like a leaf, and there are half-dried tear tracks down his cheeks.

"I'll survive," he replies. 

Irene knows what that means; not happy, not _ well_, but breathing and moving. _ It's not enough_. So, she sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for him once more, touches his hair, and his shoulder, feels as Eugenides stiffens and relaxes. 

He's at war with himself--affection and fear wound together, tight and inextricable as the fibers of a rope.

"Would you like to talk?"

Eugenides shakes his head, "Won't it just be apologies? We could spend our lives talking in that circle."

Irene nods stiffly, feels _ known_, adores and hates the feeling. _ What has this boy--this _ man, _ done to me? _

"I promised to come to you," Irene whispers. 

"I knew you would. Show me that it's over," Eugenides commands. If he used that tone with her barons, with Relius, their days might be quite altered. 

In bed next to him, Irene tugs Eugenides out of his sweat-soaked nightshirt, ignores the rush that fills her at the sight of him bare from the waist up in the flickering candlelight. 

_ I have no right_.

He goes still when she touches him, obedient in his odd, inconsistent way. He slides his arms into the garment. The red and gold flowers on her robe look more at home on Eugenides than they do on her. Irene wears fine things, as a show of power, but Eugenides seems drawn to them naturally.

"Come here."

Eugenides nods and settles against her when Irene lays down. He’s pliant, but tugs her right arm around him like a blanket. Irene pulls those up, too, tucked around his ears. 

"This will be better," Eugenides is muffled by the blanket. "Thank you."

"You sound certain." Irene knows _ she _ certainly feels less so.

"I am."

His wrist is out of sight, but Irene walks her fingers down his arm until she reaches the end, cups her hand over the skin. Eugenides quakes a bit, and Irene holds him tighter.

"How…" she starts, unaccustomed, "can you want me to be the one to comfort the pain I caused?"

"It's simple," Eugenides replies, "You're the one person here I trust never to do it again."

* * *

In the morning, Attolia and Attolis are huddled together in the center of the bed like two children hiding from monsters under a blanket.

The monsters are within, rather than without, and Irene might be one of them herself. In the scant, quiet moments where no one has any demands of her, she _ feels _better--more like someone she wouldn't mind being, like someone Eugenides would want beside him. 

They're tangled together, a mess of legs and arms. Irene's afraid to move, to inhale or exhale, like it will crack whatever exists between them. Eugenides didn't stir again after he'd fallen asleep, and Irene feels more rested than any night in recent memory.

"They'll come looking," Eugenides grumbles somewhere near her sternum.

"They always do," Irene replies, doesn't try and keep the resentment out of her tone. 

Just before many more people than necessary pound on the door, Eugenides glances up at her, expression veiled through his lashes.

"I can steal some moments like this, should you desire more. I've been told I'm _ quite _ good.”

The knocking commences.

“There’s no need to make such a racket,” Phresine says over the din in the hall, and everyone hushes at the harsh tone in her voice. “There’s only so many places the queen can be.”

“Phresine can be terrifying,” Eugenides whispers.

“She can be,” Irene agrees, “I feared her, as a girl.”

“I fear her _ now_.”

Phresine’s knock sounds polite, and Irene futilely hides under the blanket. Eugenides rises from the bed, unbolts the door, and opens it a crack.

“Her majesty,” Irene hears Phresine say, the beginning of a congenial inquiry, “Is she here?”

“Attolia is here,” Eugenides answers, as though the title will make her presence more legitimate.

“Good.” Phresine calls into the hall, “Her majesty is visiting the king; I will return her to rooms,” before closing the door.

She looks between Irene and Eugenides, and _ both _ of them flush.

* * *

The second nightmare is Irene’s, and Eugenides comes through the passage like a midnight breeze. 

“Irene.”

Her name on his lips wakes her. Of course, Eugenides needs no candle. The moon is full enough tonight that Irene can make out his familiar shape as he sits on the bed.

“You came to me,” Irene doesn’t mask her disbelief.

“My queen is in anguish,” Eugenides replies, like he’s explaining a simple truth of the world to a child. _ Crops need air and sun_; _ taxes are due_. His left hand against her cheek, “You did the same for me.”

“That’s not the same,” she replies, all stubbornness, even as she leans into him, “Are all these passages a security risk?”

“Only from me,” Eugenides sounds proud, “And it’s identical because I know what you dream, and why you wake.”

“You think you’re charming,” she’s making space for him, even as she scolds him, “Do you know how many men have tried to woo me?”

Eugenides pulls a face, “Like the Mede?”

“Among others.”

“Ah, but I’m the only one you wed.”

“Under duress.”

“You don’t lie well,” he replies, putting an arm around her and burying his nose into her hair, “I watched most of their attempts.”

“And you think you know better, what I desire?” 

“I think no one knows better than I do.” 

Eugenides _ absolutely _ does know. Calf love, she’d called it, all those months ago, but he’d been correct when he told her that calf love wouldn’t weather what she’d put him through. Thinking of him as a boy doesn’t ease her desire, and thinking of him as a man doesn’t ease her guilt--both are emotions Irene must sit with.

“Then what does Attolia want?” Irene’s breath hitches, and she feels caught--_ stolen. _

“The wrong question,” Eugenides whispers, “It’s what Irene wants that interests me.”

_ Contact_, she almost answers. _ You, with me, and not at the prompting of a nightmare. _ Just because they desire to, and they _ can_. Irene can’t give in, though, such is her nature, so she answers, “And, my king, what do you think that is?”

As though Eugenides can’t tell, doesn’t feel her heart beating out of her chest as he moves to look down at her. There’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips as he leans down and kisses her until the room is filled with nothing but moonlight and their shared breath.

“How’s my guessing today?”

* * *

Phresine _ knows_.

Irene’s senior attendant has also been with her the longest; she can’t remember a time when Phresine _ wasn’t _ around. Much like Relius, Irene affords Phresine a lot of freedom, which means she says things to Irene that other people wouldn’t dare.

Phresine is also the only one of her attendants who didn’t object to her marriage to Eugenides.

“His majesty continues to join you at night,” Phresine says as though she’s discussing the weather.

“Is that of consequence?” Irene replies, tone chilly.

Phresine chuckles and continues tidying Irene’s wardrobe, “No. It’s good,” she says, “to be young and in love.”

“We aren’t---”

_ Aren’t what? In love? _ Phresine had seen them abed together; why should Irene deny it?

Her attendant gives her a knowing smile, “I’ve known you since you were a girl.”

“And that means you know me?”

“You have a soft heart,” Phresine returns some dresses to their places, “And the king has loved you since he was a boy.”

“He’s _ still _ a boy.”

“The king asked me to tell him a story the other day.” She chuckles, “You _ both _are children to me.” 

“I don’t know why he didn’t ask for these chambers,” Irene gives voice to the thought. Eugenides won’t take _ any _ of the power he’s been granted, even down to changing his living quarters.

“Because his majesty knows they are yours.”

Irene furrows her brow, “He didn’t take the queen’s chambers, either.”

“He’s been given much authority in a short span of time,” Phresine answers, “It’s all very new to him.”

“Did he...tell you this?” Irene wonders who else, if anyone, Eugenides confides in, now that Eddis has returned home. Phresine has a motherly quality--Irene has looked to her in such a way before, though not often.

Phresine returns the last dress and comes to Irene, “The king confuses you.”

“Yes,” Irene admits but doesn’t want to elaborate.

“The king is very private,” Phresine gives Irene a sly, knowing smile. “He comes to _ you_, though.” 

* * *

"Eddis replied to your letter," Eugenides hands her the envelope stamped closed with a wax seal. It looks unopened, but Irene would be a fool to assume the Thief couldn't make a letter look as though it hadn't been read.

"I didn't write to her," Irene replies blithely, taking the envelope.

"No, but you added to mine, and she must believe it warranted your own response."

Eugenides, uncharacteristically, hadn't read what she wrote to Eddis; he'd let her seal the envelope shut, stamped with the seal on her ring, and sent the correspondence on its way.

_ Have you read it? _ Irene almosts ask, but knows it's the wrong question. "What does Eddis have to say to me?"

He has the gall to look offended, "Are you implying I'd read your _ private _ letters?"

Irene crosses her arms, replies with all the sweetness she can muster, "No, my husband, I'm not _ implying _ anything."

"No," he grins, "you've never been much for implication."

The wax seal separates from the parchment like it's the first time, but it doesn't convince Irene. Eddis' handwriting is neat and orderly--the first half of the letter is all courtly formalities, expressing Eddis's hopes that the treaty between their nations proves beneficial and advantageous.

Irene remembers, verbatim, what she added to Eugenides's letter to his queen--his _ former _ queen.

_ I believe in him, _ she'd written, _ but I don't know anything about what comes after. _

Eddis wasn't her friend, but she _ was _the closest thing Irene had to a friend. Irene remembers the pang of envy she felt seeing Eddis surrounded by her advisors--people who trusted her, people who followed her out of faith and loyalty, instead of fear.

The tone of the letter changes, near the end.

_ Gen made his choice. I may not agree with it entirely, but he chose it. Now, he's waiting for you to make yours. He doesn't always think things through, but he's quite patient when he puts his mind to it. _

She signed it _ Helen_, and the familiarity of Eddis using her given name makes Irene uncomfortable. 

When Irene looks up, Eugenides is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching her--not smirking, just _ watching_. "And what does Eddis have to say?"

“Don’t pretend you didn’t read it,” Irene refolds the letter, “She says you’ve made your choice, and you’re waiting for me to make mine.” 

Eugenides laughs, “That sounds like her.”

“Your choice--”

“Who’s pretending to be obtuse, now?”

The way Eugenides gets inside her head makes her feel raw, like her skin has been scrubbed with sand.

“You’re waiting for me.”

“Waiting,” he repeats, giving her the same smile he’s given her every morning since he began coming to her room--soft, and _ trusting_. “Watching, like always. Trying to see if I can draw you out.”

“Is it working?”

Eugenides's smile shifts to something darker that makes Irene's heart skitter out of her chest. "You let me in your bed again, so I _ think _ so.”

* * *

Within a week, they abandon any pretext about where Eugenides is going to spend his nights. His attendants leave him in his room, and he makes it back to open the door in the morning. Irene feels young, and a bit giddy. And maybe, _ maybe _ when they kiss, Irene feels like her heart is more than a stone--like it’s living earth within her, and that something could grow there.

It doesn’t solve anything, not really, but it’s _ good. _

“You look happy, your majesty,” Phresine tells her one morning as she is plaiting Irene’s hair. Chloe and Iolanthe are out of earshot pulling dresses from Irene’s wardrobe.

“Do I?” 

Irene studies herself in the mirror, but can’t see any visible changes. She knows her beauty hasn’t yet faded--people remind her of it constantly, talk about it in a way that strips her of any humanity. With Eugenides, though, Irene _ feels_. Are the effects of that what Phresine sees?

“There’s little happiness in this world, “ Phersine continues, “As someone who’s lived many years, it’s best to learn to embrace it where we find it.”

“Thank you.”

Eugenides and she aren’t intimate, despite what the whispers say. No screams of passion keep her guards awake in the hall. Nor is Attolia with child. Nor has one of them tried to smother, or stab, or poison the other. The only screams are Eugenides's nightmares, and Irene’s learned how to soothe him, what to say when he begs her not to hurt him again. To promise something instead of asking forgiveness.

Irene hears all these rumors from Relius, and most of them duplicated by Eugenides himself--although he's much more apt to be laughing while recounting.

"For a woman with _ absolute _ royal authority, you certainly let enough people chatter about you out of earshot."

"The king is correct, my queen," Relius replies.

Irene _ really _ doesn't need them flanking her like this. Relius takes the gossip _ too _ seriously, and Eugenides doesn't take it seriously enough. It ends with Irene wedged between them, trying to parse out what exactly needs dealt with.

The only part they agree on is that people talk too much.

"Idle gossip," Irene replies, rising from her chair. "_You_," she points at Eugenides, "you're the former Thief of Eddis, be _ more _ suspicious. And _ you_," she points her other hand at Relius, "Washing women talking about who shares my bed isn't a threat to my life."

Relius and Eugenides are _ nothing _ alike but look remarkably similar when scolded.

* * *

The next time Eugenides thrashes and gasps in the throes of a nightmare, Irene presses him into the mattress, hands on his shoulders, and kisses him.

It’s a bit of a gamble--Eugenides is an _ incredibly _ light sleeper and is prone to keeping an assortment of knives scattered around his person. Irene doesn’t know _ where _ he keeps the knives, only that he pulls them out of thin air as needed.

In Irene’s sleep-addled mind, the gesture _ seems _ like a good idea. _ I’m here_, she’s trying to tell him, _ not as I am in your dream, not as I was in the past. _She remembers a fireside story from when she was a girl about a princess who was awoken by a kiss. Irene is a queen, and she’s the one doing the kissing, but it’s Eugenides who awoke her, changed her, opened the door.

Nevertheless, if Eugenides is properly startled, her attendants might find Irene in a pool of her own blood with a dagger in her side. It might be fitting, since _ some _of her court seems to be under the impression the king is out to assassinate her.

She feels when Eugenides wakes; he relaxes, tension draining from him like a stopper pulled from a wineskin. He stills under her hands, doesn’t move and doesn’t return her kiss. She knows this reaction--any sternness in her voice compels it, and Eugenides ceases his petulance for a few moments. Sometimes, Irene _ wishes _Eugenides was obedient more often; commanding him to act like a king would be much easier than the dance they’re constantly doing.

Sometimes, Irene wonders if she’s broken him, frightened of what he’d give at her behest.

At least five heartbeats pass before Eugenides moves, circles her upper arm with his left hand. Irene counts the beats, a lead weight in her stomach, and they feel interminable. Then, she feels him smile, and he taps his fingers against the fabric of her nightshirt. She moves into the kiss, tilts her head to the side and tries to gauge his reaction. Eugenides normally leads, but Irene does this time, moves their mouths together with a pace that reflects the fact that she’s not quite awake.

“Irene,” Eugenides whispers, brushing his lips against her cheek, “this isn’t _ at all _ like the dream I was having.”

“Hopefully better,” Irene replies.

“Infinitely.”

She reaches up to smooth his hair away from his forehead, “You were kicking me; it was making me quite cross.”

Eugenides's low chuckle reverberates through her, “An occupational hazard.”

“I’m sorry,” she can’t stop herself from saying.

“Enough,” he wriggles beneath her but doesn’t try to free himself, “Is the kicking why you’ve pinned me to the bed?”

“I didn’t want to have to explain to court tomorrow why my king stabbed me.”

His expression softens in the moonlight, and Eugenides puts his left hand on Irene’s back, low enough that it presses them together. Irene’s used to the melange of guilt and lust when he touches her.

“I’d never stab you,” he huffs, “my blade lands just where it means to, even left-handed.”

_ But I was better before_, Irene imagines him adding. Eugenides kisses her before Irene can respond, tugs her until she’s fully over him. She feels his right arm join his left at her back. It’s so, _ so _ good--slow and affectionate and warm; she never thought she was made for such feelings and wants to drown herself in them.

Irene’s startled, but she really shouldn’t be, when she feels Eugenides's arousal press against her. He stops kissing her, hides his face in the dark hair that falls over her shoulder. _ A boy again in his embarrassment_. Although, Irene feels herself blushing, too.

“Our wedding night,” he whispers.

“...Before or after the crying?”

“Yes,” Eugenides replies, mulish, “We..._ made love_.”

“Is that what that was?” Irene doesn’t know about love--making it, feeling it, conveying it.

“It wasn’t the most romantic, I’ll admit, and we haven’t repeated it.”

Irene remembers it, the feeling of Eugenides above her, inside her. She’s too old, too _ cold_, for the warmth the memory gives her, the way it makes her want to try again now that Eugenides and she are...not free of difficulty, but closer, _ better_.

“I’m not romantic,” Irene says, shifts a bit and watches how Eugenides's eyes widen, “I cut off your hand.”

Another huff, “A fact I’ve very aware of. You could be nice about it, help me out.” 

Irene wants to groan at the puerile innuendo of the joke, but Eugenides looks pleased with himself, and not like a boy any longer. _ A man_, she thinks, _ who’s waiting, and who wants-- _

When Irene slides her hand under Eugenides clothes and touches him, he goes utterly still, eyes finding hers in the moonlight. Eugenides gasps, arching under her touch.

_ I have power over him_.

Irene’s accustomed to power--hers stems from her iron will, from a show of might. When Eugenides cries out spilling onto her hand, utterly vulnerable, Irene can only think of the devastating things she’d do to protect her king.

That, and the deep well of desire that opens within her at the sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part three will be up in a couple days!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for the climax! I mean that literally--this chapter has the M rating.
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments! I will definitely be writing more of this paring, and soon.

They’re learning.

Their emotionally-fraught wedding night consummation gives way to the fact that Eugenides learns _ fast. _ He touches her, leaves her breathless and craving more, and it gets better each time.

"Where did you _ learn_?"

The question is embarrassing; Irene is glad she's resting her head on his shoulder, and that he can't see her expression. Eugenides is young, but not so young that there couldn't be another; Irene was wed, the first time, at a younger age.

She expects him to deflect, or say something witty. Instead, Eugenides is silent for a moment before replying, "I, um, asked my sisters."

_ Such a normal answer. _

"...Really?"

"I thought they'd know better, and I didn't want to seem like a novice," he says slowly, "and I _ suppose _ I'm good with my hands. _ Hand_."

Irene just groans.

For Irene, learning means being gentle in the light of day. She’s been herself for too long to unmake it in a month, and there’s her authority to consider. The barons are always searching for a way to undermine her. Now, they’re looking for a way to garner favor with Attolis--to see if Eugenides can be bought and influenced.

It won’t do for her to lose her grasp of power over them by making cow eyes at her king like a lovesick maiden. Not that she wants to, anyway--a more subtle affection, perhaps, but not that. Attolia does _ not _ swoon.

_ They’re looking for your weaknesses. _Relius told her that since she was a girl.

But that doesn’t mean she can’t sit beside her husband at a feast and make conversation. It doesn’t mean she can’t dance with him. Once she begins watching Eugenides more closely, it becomes apparent that no one does him any favors. They should prostrate themselves before him, _ fear _ his anger, as they do hers. 

Instead of using his authority, Eugenides weathers the indignities silently; it makes Irene wonder what she’s missing.

“You’re Attolis,” she tells him one afternoon, “you can command them away, make them provide what you ask, have them flogged and hanged--you’re _ king_.”

Eugenides only shakes his head, “When something is worth it, and the time is right, I will.”

No one is rude outright, but his food often requires two hands, and people chuckle, low and under their breath, when he slops wine on the table. His attendants are buffoons, but Irene won’t undermine his authority by dismissing them. He wears the same coat too frequently because it’s apparent he can affix all the buttons himself. Sometimes, he clothes are mismatched, and Eugenides deflects by saying he chose them that way.

Irene helps where it won’t embarrass Eugenides--a hand on his plate at dinner, a clasp on a piece of clothing in the privacy of her rooms.

For his part, Eugenides looks less petulant on the throne, nettles her subjects, his subjects--_ their _ subjects, with decreasing frequency. His Attolian accent is flawless, and he dresses and comports himself in a way that _ might _ be seen as an attempt to assimilate. It’s not enough, not even close, but it’s _ something_, and Irene is loathe to push him.

* * *

_ If only I could take a nap_.

The thought enters Irene’s head, drifts through like a wispy cloud; she closes her eyes, rests her chin in her hand--a sad approximation of what she really longs for. At least she’s alone, seated at her desk, far away from the morning spent with squabbling barons. 

A faint sound, almost imperceptible footfalls, disrupts Irene’s thoughts; Irene opens her eyes to find Eugenides peering at her across the desk, her ruby headband draped over his fingers. She hadn’t felt him remove it..

“The barons were churlish this morning.”

Irene scoffs, “Yet _ you_, my king, left me to deal with them.”

He studies the headband more closely, holds it at eye level and watches the rubies catch the midday sunlight. Irene supposes the jewelry is pretty, but she’s long since stopped viewing finery as anything more than power. She’s not sad that Eugenides plucked it off her head.

“You look tired, Irene.”

“You’d be weary, too, after a morning of _ that_.”

_ Do I sound bitter? _ The barons, like all of Attolia, were Irene’s responsibility. She’d refused all help for fear of subterfuge and betrayal. Yet, she found herself wishing Eugenides sat beside her more frequently, helped her deal with the squabbles and the intrigue.

“It _ was _ quite trying,” he replies, placing the rubies onto her desk. 

The door into the hall is still open, flanked by guards, but Eugenides touches her anyway, slides his left hand into the long, dark hair spilling down her back. How quickly Irene has come to crave such contact, to wish for Eugenides to make her skin tingle with a dozen casual, intimate touches.

“You were there,” Irene guesses, feels cross about the idea even as she leans into his hand. “Spying from the rafters?”

A chuckle. “Nothing so acrobatic.”

“A disguise?”

‘Mayhaps.”

“And that was more helpful than sitting beside me?”

Eugenides leans in, kisses her temple, and whispers, “Give me six months to solve your baron problem.”

During her next meeting with Relius, Irene spends a good portion of the time trying to convince her advisor that Eugenides dressing in servant’s garb, listening through keyholes, and scaling buildings could _ actually _ be helpful.

* * *

“Do you like dancing?”

Irene’s lost count of the times she danced with Eugenides, even before they were wed. Before Eddis returned home, when Irene was certain the marriage was Eugenides's revenge, she danced with him, let her court see him, see _ them_.

Let them see that Attolia was finally to choose a husband, and it was to be the Thief of Eddis. _ I need a king_, she’d thought, then, _ and why does it have to be him? Why do I have to love him? _

A foreign emotion, beyond her control. An invasion, unwanted and damaging.

“I don’t dislike it,” Eugenides replies from the seat next to her, “Although, some are harder, now.”

Irene doesn’t think Eugenides means it as a barb each time he mentions his missing hand. And, even if he does, Irene can accept that--actions have consequences; she deserves every remark that passes Eugenides's lips.

Irene thinks Eugenides _ might _like dancing better than sitting on the throne.

“I enjoy it,” Irene replies, “People still watch, but I’m under no obligation to speak with anyone.”

“Does Attolia hate speaking with her court?”

“No.” She’s never considered whether or not she hates duty; it’s just daily life. “But who doesn’t value solitude?”

Eugenides closes his eyes. As their physical relationship progresses, Irene feels acutely aware of him next to her. She wants to touch him, to comfort him and tell him she understands how isolated he feels, even though he's never alone.

“My king.”

_ If only he would be. _

"My queen," Eugenides answers, offers her a small smile. "Would you dance with me? This chair is insufferable."

Irene takes his hand when he offers it, lets Eugenides lead her through the court, ignores the murmurs that follow them. 

And, when the dance concludes, Eugenides doesn't follow her back to the throne, but kisses her on the cheek.

* * *

"You're the king, not a child."

"You seem to think me a child when it suits you."

It's true. He's a boy when he sits on the floor and sulks, but there's no boy in him when he comes to her chambers after she bolted the door. Then, Eugenides is a man, one who touches her and---

Irene shakes her head to clear it, a minute gesture that Eugenides certainly catches.

"Only when you comport yourself like one," she replies after a moment.

He's seated on the floor of her chambers, arms and legs crossed in petulant defiance. The room is littered with attendants, both his _ and _hers--Attolia and Attolis can't even have an argument alone.

"I wasn't being childish," Eugenides replies, "I was…reconnoitering."

Irene takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, "Which involved leaving the palace unattended?"

"I'm safer unattended than with this trail of lumbering idiots behind me," he gestures with the hook to his retinue.

"You can't just...do as you will," Irene says, giving him a lecture she's been giving herself since she became queen. _ I can't live for myself_. She is not Irene; she is her kingdom. "You represet Attolia, and you represent _ me. _"

"_Ah_," the truth comes out," Eugenides looks up daring her to contradict. "It's all about how it _ looks_."

Atollia's anger is a stone-faced fury, but the white-hot rage Irene feels now would be a weakness, not a weapon. She _ burns _ with it, fists balled in rage, staring at her maddening king seated on the floor.

"_Yes." _Too simple an answer, but Irene's frazzled patience is nearing its end.

"And how does _ this _ look? I'm unwelcome, surrounded by people who wish me dead. My freedom is leached from me. I'm neither king, nor thief."

"You _ are _ king--"

"I don't want to be!" Eugenides shouts. The others in the room shrink back as if struck, and Irene has never so acutely wished for privacy. "I just wanted you."

Irene remembers her amphora, broken on the stone floor, and Eugenides, broken in his cell. 

"You knew," Irene replies, a harsh edge in her tone. "That this is what that meant."

He looks admonished--he _ didn't _ realize the full extent of what being king meant. Irene wanted him in return, selfish for once, and now they're here.

"I wanted to protect you," he whispers, "to let you out."

The look on Eugenides's face, the trust she's done nothing to earn, makes Irene want to weep.

"You have."

Eugenides stands, lithe and graceful. There are always so many people, and Irene can't go to him.

"Leave," he says, _ commands_. 

No one moves, but they certainly have their eyes trained on their king. 

“Was I too oblique?” he continues, _ “Get out. _”

Their attendants scatter like drops of rain on a lake, picking up belongings and pouring out the door in the hall, where they will wait. When they’re alone, Eugenides goes to the door and bolts it.

“Eugenides--”

“I’m not fond of spectators.”

“Spectators,” Irene repeats.

“King or no, a man should be allowed some measure of privacy with his wife.”

There’s no ambiguity what Eugenides means by his desire for privacy. He’s smiling at her, warmly; all of Irene’s earlier fury melts away, replaced by a giddy desire that she didn’t know, until recently, she was capable of feeling. 

“Privacy.”

“Was I too vague?”

“No.”

“Good, it would wound my pride if my wife rejected me.”

“You’re _ insufferable _when your pride is wounded,” Irene holds out her hand, hoping that Eugenides will come to her.

He does, lets Irene reel him in. She touches his cheek, runs her fingers over the scar there. Eugenides looks up at her; Irene is content to watch him. Her king, who she can’t command to sit and deal with matters of actual importance, who freezes when touched.

Eugenides kisses her, tugs until Irene bends down to meet him. She never thought much of kissing--a silly gesture traded between foolish people in love, but Eugenides makes a production of it. He moves slowly, _ maddeningly_, draws the act out until there’s frenzy and fire within her. Then, he’ll stop, smile at her, and kiss her cheek in the most chaste manner imaginable.

He _ clearly _ finds it very amusing.

Irene notices when Eugenides drops her hand, but another kiss distracts her from his deft, wandering fingers. The removal of her crown is Eugenides's first stop. Irene half expects him to fling it across the room, but he just places it on the bed. Then, she feels the pins in her hair loosen, one after the other, until it tumbles down her back. 

“Some effort goes into that,” she chides, “and you ruin it.”

“Can a king even be punished for such an offense?”

"By me.”

Irene likes giving into him, and Eugenides seems to enjoy the game of working for it. To yield, evening willingly, is one thing, but Irene won’t let herself go without creating a war in her heart. There’s also a part of her, buried deep with her guilt, that needs Eugenides keep proving what he feels, that he still desires her. 

Maybe, _ maybe _ that's unkind if her. 

For all Irene’s immovability, Eugenides is delightfully eager, lips against her jaw before he kisses down to the neckline of her dress. He does something that's probably going to leave a mark on her collarbone. 

"Irene," he says into her skin. 

"Not Attolia?" 

Eugenides huffs, breath warm on her skin, "Not when I was looking."

_ My voyeur_, Irene thinks; somehow, it doesn't bother her. So much of Eugenides’s affection is meant to go unseen.

Irene stands before the bed, hands clasped--even when intimate, shedding her persona is a challenge. Eugenides studies her, probably planning an escape route for her out of her dress. It shouldn't be difficult, a sash and buttons at her back. She hadn't dressed herself, but she _ could. _

"You're quite deft," Irene says as Eugenides undoes the knotted sash one-handed.

He laughs, moves behind her and reaches for a button, "A hazard of the occupation. Although, I'll surely need a hand at some point."

"You're not funny."

Eugenides's answering laugh informs Irene that he disagrees.

Irene's nervousness increases as the buttons down her back are undone. She's a queen, and a grown woman, so there's no reason for her heart to pound as it does. Everything leading up to this moment was fumbling, even their ill-fated wedding was Irene grasping at Eugenides in the darkness.

Eugenides gives a triumphant _ ha _ when the dress falls to the ground. Irene is tempted to catch it, but her pride won't allow it. He drops his forehead to rest against the area between her shoulder blades. The silence makes Irene wonder what stormy thoughts are crossing Eugenides's mind.

"I love you."

The words thrill her--no matter how angry he makes her, no matter how guilty she feels.

"...Is that enough?"

_ For a life resented, for dreams abandoned. _

"Do you love me?" There's that tone again--_ small_, like Eugenides will break.

"You know I do."

Her love spreads outward like ink dropped on a page, shaping her as it moves. So many new feelings---affection, desire, protectiveness.

Eugenides hugs her, doesn't stab her with his hooked prosthetic, "The best, last thing I’ve stolen."

She touches his right arm, and his grip tightens, “You don’t need this.”

“No. Go ahead.”

The cuff comes off easily; she places it on the bed by her crown. Irene touches him, as gently as she can manage; Eugenides still tenses--a hurdle that he forces himself to step over. She wants--_ needs _ to look at Eugenides, so she wraps her fingers around his right forearm and loosens his grip enough to spin and face him. 

Of course, that means Eugenides will be able to look at her, too. She's standing there, without her crown and nearly nude, made vulnerable in the way only Eugenides can inspire. He looks up at her, such complexity in his dark eyes, but buried below the nervous tension is _ heat. _

“Will it always be a war?” he presses his lips to the upper swell of her breast. 

Fear and guilt clash with longing; Irene understands _ exactly _ what Eugenides is asking. _ Submit_, Irene tells herself, a contradiction--willing herself to give in.

"I don't know any other way."

"Nothing to fight about now," he journeys closer to her nipple, but doesn't land where she wants. “Nothing to fight with.”

_ No crown, no hook. _

“No knives?”

Eugenides chuckles, his breath over her skin giving her goosebumps. “_ You _ don’t have any, and you’re welcome to search me.”

If she’s revealing herself, turnabout is fair play. Eugenides halts his exploration of her, as Irene pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the ground.

“No knives on the top half,” Eugenides quips, returning to her breast and _ finally _ landing where she desires.

Irene gasps. “And the bottom?” She touches the waist of his pants, skirts the border where fabric meets skin. 

“Find out,” he challenges.

A sense of urgency overtakes Irene--this game is too protracted; she wants him, naked in her bed, wants to hold him until they’re one, and there’s no space for the past. Eugenides doesn’t say anything when Irene pushes his pants down; he only shimmies to step out of them. Undergarments go next, Eugenides tugging on hers with his left hand, while Irene frantically tugs at his.

Irene’s never knelt before Eugenides, but she finds power in the way his eyes widen when she does; he’s not an easy person to surprise. She’s used her hands, felt Eugenides come apart under her touch, so this should be an extension of that. She must look uncertain because Eugenides touches her hair, not to push, but to soothe.

“A-anything,” he stutters, “just don’t bite it off--you’ll be upset later, if you--”

“_Stop_,” she interjects, “don’t _ joke _ about that.”

“I can manage without a hand, but--”

If Eugenides was trying to goad Irene into action, he’s successful. Irene puts her mouth on him, if only to make him cease joking about his missing hand. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, can only think of Eugenides crawling under her bedsheets and pressing his mouth against _ her_. The methods are not similar at all--all the memory grants her is a pang of distracting lust. She moves, an uncoordinated rhythm that she can’t imagine feels good. 

He moans, though, unabashed in showing his pleasure. Irene understands, or thinks she does--Eugenides's reactions prove he’s not thinking of the past. 

“_Irene_,” he gasps when she takes him as deep as she can, “y-you--”

She wants him incoherent, and doesn't mind when Eugenides grabs her hair harder than he probably means to. He’ll come, eventually, and Irene doesn’t know well enough yet to predict. When he spills onto her hands, it always seems abrupt.

Clearly not to Eugenides, though, because eventually he stops her, pushes her away until she looks up, and their eyes meet. He’s awed, staring down at her, hand on her cheek.

“My queen,” Eugenides says, some of his swagger returning, “_kneeling _ before her king.”

Irene won’t rise to the barb, standing instead, towering over Eugenides, “Enough,” she commands.

“Agreed.”

They meet on the bed, Eugenides beneath her. Her hair slides over her shoulders, makes a curtain around the two of them. _ Privacy_, Irene thinks, _ so rare_. There are people in the hall, but no one between the two of them. Eugenides touches her, slides his hand down her side, stopping at her breast before cupping her hip. From there, he wanders between her thighs. 

“I don’t want that.”

Eugenides laughs, “I suppose we’ve had _ quite _ a winding lead-up.”

“It has been unique,” Irene agrees--to consummate, then nothing, then everything but. The memory of their shared tears is still acute in her mind. “I’ll stay like this.”

Eugenides stills when Irene straddles him, steadies her with a hand on her hip while she sinks down onto him. There’s no pain, of course--Irene isn’t a maiden, but Eugenides feels foreign, and it takes a moment for her to settle. Irene doesn’t _ want _ him to feel foreign; she wants this to feel _ right_. 

_ Someone _ has to move, though, and Irene is a queen, so she takes the lead, rocks her hips against Eugenides. He gasps, clutches at her hip again, bumps the other side with the stump of his wrist and jerks back. Irene takes his elbow and puts his arm back before leaning down, bracketing his head with her hands, and kisses him tenderly.

“Don’t think about it.”

His scoff turns to a gasp when Irene raises her hips and bears down on Eugenides again. “Easy for _ you _ to say.”

Another kiss, “No--it haunts me.”

Eugenides moves his hand to her hair, holding Irene’s head close to his, “I’m fine.” He follows her lead with his right arm, letting it rest against her hip. The scar tissue is rough against her skin. Irene moves again--a better rhythm than with her mouth, repeats the gesture until they’re gasping and trembling together. The foreign feeling abates. Maybe Irene, as the wife, should be pliant beneath her king, but she’s never been that woman, and Eugenides's closed eyes and flushed cheeks tell her he doesn’t want her to be.

“Irene,” he pants, and she pushes the damp hair off his forehead.

“My king.” she replies, couldn’t mask the fondness in her voice even if she wished to.

“I--I can’t--”

Eugenides's climax surprises her; Irene tightens her thighs around him, and he kisses her as he rides through it. She supposes that he could have spilled outside her, but Irene can’t bring herself to care when she rests her forehead on the bed next to his head.

“It’s fine,” she whispers, “We’re married.”

“I didn’t last,” Eugenides pouts, “Like a _ boy_.”

Irene laughs, “It still surprised me.”

Eugenides reaches between them where they’re still joined, touching her. “Give me a moment; the benefit of being a _ boy_.”

He’s deft with his remaining hand, and Irene submits to the lazy spiral Eugenides is going to take her on. She’s abashed at the noises that leave her, blushing and gasping his name into his hair. As he hardens again inside her, Irene shifts like she’s trying to be rid of him, and Eugenides wraps his right arm around her back.

“Wrong way,” he whispers to her.

They hold one another as Eugenides pushes upward, shallow thrusts that wreck her with their intensity. Irene climaxes, shaking more than Eugenides had. There’s _ something _ she wants to say to him, some words to convey the overwhelming feelings that spill out of her, but Irene doesn’t have the language for it.

After, Irene lies next to her husband, noses nearly pressed together and limbs entwined.

“We did it,” Eugenides proclaims, “Well, I think.”

“No tears,” she smiles at him.

“No thrown inkpots.”

“Or stabbings, or cursings.”

“Remaining appendages still attached.”

Irene kicks him under the blanket, and Eugenides yelps dramatically.

“Why won’t you take the chambers connecting to mine?” The question has nagged at Irene long enough that, in her lowered defenses, she finally asks.

“Because I can still get to you,” Eugenides answers, “And I didn’t know what you wanted.”

“Phresine will find you here in the morning, like _ this_.” Not a question, but a declaration; Irene has no intention of letting Eugenides spirit away. “She’ll probably be quite pleased at this development, though.”

“Find _ us_,” Eugenides corrects, kissing her forehead, “like two peas in a messy pod.”

And, in the morning, Phresine does.

**Author's Note:**

> I totally intend to write more of this pairing, particularly a one shot where Irene learns to swim. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at https://kurikaesu-haru.tumblr.com/


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